


under calico skies

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Top Richie Tozier, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: When you get down to it, what Richie Tozier wants is to be romanced. Wined and dined (the “69ed” is optional, despite what everyone he knows assumes about him). He wants to be wooed. Patiently won. Like he’s worth it.The biggest joke of all.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 120





	under calico skies

Admitting to himself that he’s gay, coming out as gay, that was one thing. It felt like baring himself, raw, to the entire world. But even if they don’t always like it, people get it. They understand it, the fact of it. There’s another truth, below that, something he doesn’t really hide from himself exactly, but something he knows wouldn’t make sense to anybody. 

It’s silly, it’s dumb, it’s embarrassing, it’s unrealistic. If anything, it had been the reality of being gay that was realistic, so true it hurt. But this, this need at the secret heart of him—he can’t imagine a world where it would be accepted, indulged. And he definitely knows it’s not as potentially dangerous as being gay—like when he was a kid, there are still places in the world where being gay is a death sentence, sometimes a literal one. But still, for some reason, he feels the need to keep this even more secret.

Once he’s no longer trying to live like he isn’t gay, he’s stil the Trashmouth—no commitment, one-night-stands, the works—only the modern “gay lifestyle” should be his dream. Right? 

But no, when you get down to it, what Richie Tozier wants is to be romanced. Wined and dined (the “69ed” is optional, despite what everyone he knows assumes about him). He wants to be wooed. Patiently won. Like he’s worth it.

The biggest joke of all. 

Now, he knows he’s lucky—he’s somehow stumbled onto actually getting as his boyfriend his childhood crush, the boy whose initial he carved with his own, _R+E_ , in wooden railings of the Kissing Bridge back home. Just actually kissing Eddie is more than he’d ever dreamed for himself; sleeping with him, Eddie saying he loves him, Richie getting to say it back, all of that is more than Richie ever thought he’d have. 

Richie is big, and goofy, and hairy, and he’s got a spare tire, and his forehead is too big especially now that his hair’s starting to thin and recede, and he’s got buck teeth and not much of an ass. Eddie seems to put up with him easily enough, but Eddie’s cute—still is, like he was as a kid, only now he’s also hot—and Richie’s always aware that at any time, Eddie could snap out of it and find himself a guy more like himself, some successful broker or something with the same type of tight soccer-player body, same type of delicately handsome face, someone put together and not a strange assemblage of parts desperate for some sort of acceptance like Richie’s always been.

It should be enough. He hates that it doesn’t feel like enough. What more could he possibly have the right to ask for? He already has more than he deserves, doesn’t he?

Their first Valentine’s Day together is coming up (not counting the ones when they were kids and Richie gave Eddie the biggest valentines in the box, passing them off like they were meant for Eddie’s mom and watching him get pink with fury), and it seems like every commercial, every display they pass in the grocery store is about love, everything colored red and pink, hearts everywhere. It’s… sweet. Yes, it’s corny. Yes, it’s saccharine. But he looks at, say, cartoon ducks mooning over each other on the fronts of cards and thinks he knows exactly how they feel.

Eddie, however, for all Richie loves about him, isn’t into that stuff. At all. He doesn’t even seem to see it. Richie lets his eyes trace over displays of heart-shaped chocolate boxes, teddy bears, chocolate roses, novelty gifts like underwear with conversation hearts and knows it hasn’t even occurred to Eddie to buy any of it, or that Richie might want any of it. And there’s no way in hell Richie’s going to ask. He pictures Eddie laughing at him, but not in the fun way, or worse, Eddie not comprehending why Richie thought he could ask for anything. 

In the grocery store, they walk past rows and columns of bright red and pink chocolate boxes shaped like hearts, and Richie picks up a comically large one, holds it over his chest, and bats his lashes. Eddie scoffs at him, dimples showing as he can’t help being amused, and walks on; Richie follows. 

The gas station out in the parking lot has a stand nearby where a guy’s selling roses and cheap-looking stuffed animals; Richie grabs a bouquet despite the guy’s squawk, picks up a white teddy bear and dances around with them, making a face. 

“Cut it out, dickhead,” Eddie admonishes, face crinkling with amusement. And something in Richie has always thrilled at going _Eddie Eddie Eddie look at me look at me_ and then getting looked at and admonished, so as far as that goes, he’s happy, feeling a little glow inside. Still, there’s a little voice reminding Richie that Eddie thinks the very idea of giving Richie traditional corny Valentine’s Day things isn’t even under consideration. It’s a joke. Ha ha.

Eddie is caring and kind and decent, yes, more than decent, a brave man who loves his friends, but he’s not a romantic, he’s too practical to have the patience to do anything like wooing, and Richie knows this. It’s part of why he loves Eddie—although Richie can be brutally realistic, he can also spiral down into negativity, and when he’s clear-headed Eddie’s got the practicality needed to bring Richie down to earth and get things done. He’s grounding, something Richie needs. Something he loves. He loves all that Eddie is, always has. 

After he returns the bouquet and the teddy bear to the stand, grinning at the stink-eye the guy gives him and shrugging in apology, Eddie takes his hand for the brief walk back to the car, and Richie squeezes it and loves him, that he can hold this man’s hand in public. As the stop at the car, Richie kisses his temple, and Eddie smiles, and they go home.

They watch a movie that night on the couch, something they do a lot—Richie adores it because Eddie sprawls on him, treats him like a big pillow, complains about whatever the movie is, and occasionally gropes him. It’s a dream.

Tonight, they’re in pajamas, Eddie’s lying over him like a small hot blanket, and their fingers are idly laced together. When they were kids, Richie would have died for just this—for just this, nothing sexual, although when he was a kid, despite running his mouth about girls all the time, he would barely have understood his wants which were only just beginning to make themselves known then. It would take years for the urges to become undeniable, for him to furtively try some things out, only with guys who knew how to keep secrets and expected him to do the same. Guys who wanted him out before they had to go to class or work. Guys who’d pretend to barely know him at parties or industry dinners. Richie had decided long ago that it was really for the best and he couldn’t expect much more, not someone like him. And then Eddie had suddenly shown up again. 

Eddie loves him, he has no doubt about that. Eddie treats him like a boyfriend in public, like he wasn’t considering doing otherwise. No standing feet apart, no acting like they don’t know each other. And Richie’s grateful for it. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Eddie kept him at arm’s length, rebuffed his casual touches. But he thinks that, like a whipped dog, he’d still follow Eddie around, with his tail between his legs and whimpering, but following him nonetheless. In public, Eddie puts an arm around his waist, leans on him, takes his hand. It’s huge, huge for someone who’d been so deeply closeted—for both of them, really. 

In private, Eddie’s as proprietary over him as ever, with a twist now: marking him up with nipping kisses, bruising him with a tight grip. Richie loves it, feels dizzy with it. In its way, maybe it’s kind of romantic, the claiming, the possessiveness. It’s definitely enjoyable. But. Richie already knows, has always known in his bones, that Eddie sees him as his territory. He knows he’s wanted in that capacity. It’s a given, but he’s still grateful for it.

So why does he still want more?

“What do you want to do for Valentine’s Day, sweetheart?” Eddie asks suddenly, sounding drowsy. 

“Uh.” Richie stifles his panic. _Candlelight dinner. Flowers. Bubble bath. Nighttime walk holding hands in the snow. ..Sex coupons._ “Nothing, I guess?”

Eddie raises his head and squints sleepily yet suspiciously at him; Richie quickly looks away, but still catches the way his brows lower in confusion. “Really?”

Richie’s shrug jostles Eddie’s body. “Yeah, probably nothing.” He can still feel Eddie staring at him as he pretends to watch the movie, feeling his face get hot, hoping Eddie can’t tell in the dark. “What?” he finally asks, defensive, looking back at Eddie.

“Nothing,” Eddie tells him. “I think we should have a nice dinner,” he adds, and Richie nods, casual. 

“Probably hard to get a reservation at this point, Eds.”

“I mean here,” Eddie says, a little huffy, possibly offended at the idea that Richie would assume he waited to make Valentine’s Day reservations at the last minute.

Richie looks at him then, amused. “Yeah, you gonna cook dinner for me?” he teases. “Gonna set off the smoke alarm again?” Eddie is a determined but largely unskilled cook. 

“Yes, you dick,” Eddie says firmly.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Richie sing-songs, adding "Actually, you can definitely wear my dick out, Eds. Anytime. It's all yours."

"I know that," Eddie says, sounding both exasperated and fond. He adds, "I'm going to make you dinner."

“Fine, go for it. I’ll try to choke it down,” Richie says, waggling his eyebrows and then looking at the TV again, unable to stop smiling, as Eddie gently shoves him. God, he’s so pathetic that just Eddie saying he’s going to make dinner for him is sending him over the moon. No one’s ever bothered to make dinner _for_ him as, like, a gesture. When Eddie falls asleep on him and starts drooling, Richie is still smiling.

When Eddie comes back from the grocery store with ingredients for what must be their Valentine’s Day dinner, Richie stamps down his building internal panic. Pretending he doesn’t know what’s happening is an option, but he’s not sure he can do it, and besides, it would be kind of absurd, since Eddie knows he knows. So instead, he grabs the blood oranges Eddie bought and starts juggling them, over Eddie’s mild protests. 

He can’t look directly at Eddie, as much as he craves to—even just the thought of Eddie carefully poring over recipes, frowning in intense concentration as he works to make a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner for Richie is too much. But he can’t help glancing at Eddie: compact and handsome, big dark worried eyes, their focus being drawn to scanning packages of food, glancing back to the recipes. Richie picks up every single thing Eddie’s bought and comments on it, bounces it, shakes it, but Eddie, though the furrow between his brow deepens and his mouth becomes more and more of a tight, thin line, won’t let himself be distracted.

“Rich!” he finally says, loudly, when Richie drops all the blood oranges on the kitchen floor with a cascade of soft _thumps_. “Get out of the kitchen. Go sit down, go do something else. Watch TV, read a book. Write.” He points the way.

Richie’s heart jolts a little. He’d finally, inevitably, hit the wall and gone too far. At the same time, it’s a relief. Sighing dramatically, he gusts out “Fine!” and half-stomps off, dragging his feet. 

“You’re such a child,” Eddie calls after him. Richie doesn’t turn around, but flips him off, and hears Eddie’s sigh.

His mood sinks along with him as he sits down heavily on their couch. Why couldn’t he just take this in stride? Why, why, why couldn’t he act like a normal 40-something whose live-in boyfriend and the love of their life was making them a romantic dinner? 

_Because no one ever has done this for you before_ , a voice reminds him—no, it’s not Pennywise, nothing like that, just that voice that’s been with him for so many years— _Other people are used to those things because they happen to them all the time. They don’t happen to you. And you know why that is, don’t you? You know no one’s done this for you before because you don’t deserve it. Maybe Eddie thinks you do, but you don’t, do you? Think about Eddie in there, spending all this time on someone who doesn’t deserve it. You’re a coward._

“Fuck,” Richie whispers, elbows on his knees, face dropping into his hands. He stays like that for a while. 

Whatever Eddie’s cooking smells amazing, and it sounds like it involves a lot of work. Richie’s starting to feel worse and worse about his present for Eddie, something he picked up at a Spencer Gifts. There’s literally nothing he wouldn’t give Eddie, if he were brave enough, but once again he couldn’t _not_ sidestep the issue, and bought Eddie… a pair of edible underwear. Ha ha. What a gag. See, Eddie, for the Trashmouth it’s all about the sex, the jokes. 

Yes, Richie’s told Eddie he loves him. He does—it’s something that’s been true for so long that he knows that he’d have no choice but to tell him eventually, and saying it for the first time had been a relief. But it’s too much, it’s too scary to think of Eddie throwing that back in his face, or to imagine him looking up with a serious expression and going, after opening something like, say, a package of custom-made cufflinks Richie ordered especially for him, or an engraved pen set, or a tie bar, everything adorned with _R+E_ , “I didn’t really love you, Rich. You were just a rebound. I was emotional—I was confused. I’m sorry.” Then, of course, Eddie would leave him and end up happy with some hot little piece more like himself, no one as messy or as cowardly as Richie. 

Richie sits with his head in his hands for some time. He can’t even bring himself to go into the kitchen and help. He’s that much of a worthless scumbag. _Cumbag, though, right?_ the voice asks. _That’s all you’re good for, all you’re good at. Should’ve stuck to casual sex and walks of shame_.

When he hears Eddie walking in, he looks up quickly, clears his throat, tries to look like he hasn’t just been sitting here wallowing. He hopes he’s successful, but from the concern on Eddie’s face he doubts it.

“Dinner’s ready,” Eddie says finally, with a little encouraging smile, his dimples making a brief appearance. Richie stands on unsteady feet and follows him to the dining room. 

The dining room is dark, and the table has lit candles on it and an actual tablecloth. Richie swallows hard. “Whoa, Eds—fire hazard,” he jokes. “Fire and wine don’t mix,” he adds, looking at the uncorked bottle of red, the glasses half-filled so the wine can breathe. 

Eddie’s cooked a fish dish, with a side consisting of a blend of mixed vegetables and pasta; the fish is topped with a sauce apparently made using the blood oranges Richie had juggled. “Fish? C’mon, Eds—I gave up fish when I dumped your mother,” and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Sit down, Richie.”

The food is good—it’s really good. Eddie not only put a lot of thought into this and worked hard, he did a good job. He did all this, and he’s going to get… a pair of strawberry-flavored edible underwear from his idiot boyfriend who doesn’t deserve him. 

“This is really fucking good, Eds,” Richie finally says, mouth full.

Eddie goes pink in the candlelight, pleased, dimpling. “Thanks, Rich,” he says quietly. “Oh, also, for dessert I made these little chocolate cakes, with like… oozing chocolate. Lava cakes, that’s what they’re called. And vanilla ice cream.” He points his fork at Richie. “No jokes about oozing chocolate,” he warns.

Richie raises his hands in supplication. “Aw, Eds. C’mon. I would never.”

The meal is very good. The dessert is amazing. And then over empty plates, in just the glow of the candlelight, Richie looks up after setting down his fork to find Eddie staring at him, chin in his hand.

“What?” Richie says. Eddie keeps looking at him, right into his eyes, intent. Richie feels himself heat up all over, desperately wishing he could break the gaze but at the same time not really wanting to. Eddie has such beautiful big dark eyes. Richie’s always loved them, always wanted to be the focus of their attention—so why, when he most definitely is, does he want to hide under the table? “What?” Richie says again, a little more desperately.

“I’m just looking at you,” Eddie says.

“I can see that. Why?” Richie asks. “You’re making me nervous.”

Eddie’s shoulders suddenly slump; he breaks the gaze, face falling, looking down at his plate again. He sighs. “Fuck,” he adds in a whisper, half to himself.

Richie’s heartbeat hits a rapid patter. Here it comes. He’s finally gone too far and ruined things beyond a doubt. At last, familiar territory. Richie waits.

Eddie’s brow creases, his mouth a thin line again before he says, “I’m not good at this, Rich. I’m sorry.”

“Not good at what?” Richie asks, startled.

“This.” Eddie gestures to the plates, the table, the candles. “I mean, I tried. But I just… it’s not my thing, I guess. Romance, trying to be romantic. Myra always—” Richie flinches at the name without meaning to— “She always said I needed to work on being romantic. I think she was wrong about a lot about us, but….”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Eds?” Richie says in disbelief. “Myra— She— Eddie. Look at me.” Eddie looks at him again with his big sad eyes, and Richie swallows hard. “Why would you not think this is romantic? You made me dinner. You lit candles. I know you’re shitting yourself thinking I’m going to knock the candles over and set the place on fire.”

“It’s dumb,” Eddie says. 

“It’s not dumb. Tell me.”

“I just….” Eddie scrubs his hands over his face. “I read an article. And it said over dinner to look into your partner’s eyes. So… I did. But I just…. You’re not taking me seriously and you’re not getting what I’m trying to do, so… I just feel stupid. I feel like an idiot.”

Richie wants to disappear into the floor. “You’re not an idiot! I’m the idiot. I…. Eddie, I juggled your oranges and I bought you _edible underwear_.”

Eddie raises a brow. “Yeah? ...For tonight?”

“I mean, I guess!” Richie throws his hands up in the air. “Although I’m not sure people even really use it! That’s how shitty my gift to you is, I bought you a gag gift! Something I’m not sure people even really use!”

“Would you want to, though? Use it?”

“Would I want to eat something off your goddamn adorable little ass? Of course I would!”

“So what’s the problem?” Eddie returns, pink, downing the rest of his glass of wine. “It’s a funny gift. You juggling the oranges is funny. That’s… that’s what I love about you, Richie.”

“I mean, I just….” Richie bites his lip. “You deserve better than me being a goofy jackass, Eddie.”

“No I don’t,” Eddie retorts. “You’re _my_ goofy jackass, and I love you.”

Fuck, Richie’s going to cry. 

“I love you so much, Rich,” Eddie continues, “and I don’t…. I’m sorry I’m not good at Valentine’s Day.” His big eyes are mournful.

“No. Eddie, no,” Richie says, swallowing to keep himself from blubbering. “I don’t…. I’m not….” 

Eddie waits, surprisingly patient, and reaches out a hand across the table. Richie takes it quickly, squeezes it like Eddie’s saving him from drowning. 

“I’m…. You’re….” Richie presses his lips together tightly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “I’ve always wanted… this.” He opens his eyes, looking around at the table, the candles, the place in general, Eddie. “But I’ve never felt like I… deserve it.” He takes a deep breath, exhales it shakily. Eddie’s brow creases in seeming concern and confusion. “You know. I’m….” He gestures with his free hand at himself. “I’m me.”

Eddie’s confusion seems to increase; he tilts his head. “You are you, yes.”

“I mean, I’m…. I’m not the type of person who…. Look, I’m not a relationship guy. I’m not someone who people are… open about being with? And I mean, yeah, I was closeted for a long time. Really deeply closeted. I know. And that’s part of it. But… nobody ever suggested to me that they were cool with being known to be… with me. None of those guys were like, Hey, let’s hold hands on line at the deli. It was always, Hey, this was fun, be out of here before I have to go to work. So I never…. Like, even when I was a kid I’d think about, you know, holding hands with a guy—I mean, _you_ , most of the time—” he watches Eddie’s frown momentarily appear at “most of the time” and allow himself a chuckle— “but I knew then that it would be a cold day in hell before I’d be able to just walk around with a guy like straight people walked around without getting my ass kicked, and then, the Nineties happened and it was less likely I’d get my ass kicked but I was still a coward and I felt like even if I was out and proud I’d still just be… some schlub who’d blow you when your girlfriend was visiting her mother and then be on the subway before dawn.” Richie looks down at his cleaned plate.

“Rich.” Eddie raises up from his chair a little to lean forward and kiss Richie’s knuckles. Richie looks up. “You’re not some schlub. You’re _my_ schlub.” Eddie’s dimples make another appearance. 

Richie tilts his head in acquiescence. “Yeah. Okay. I am. But I just…. I always felt like I’d never be in a real relationship, like this, and I feel like an asshole because this is more than I’ve ever had and I still want….” He trails off.

“What? What do you want?” Eddie asks.

Richie feels his face get hot. “Like…. I want this. I want the cheesy stereotypical romance stuff that you think you’re so bad at.”

Eddie nods. “Okay. I’ll give you whatever you want, Rich. You mean that much to me.” He squeezes Richie’s fingers. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted stuff like this, like, if you’d make fun of me. I knew you probably would, but I wanted to try, anyway.”

“Nah, I’m sorry,” Richie says. “I was being an immature jackass. I don’t…. I’m a cowardly fuckup sometimes, Eds.”

“No, you’re not. I’m going to try to do more. I like it. But it’s okay to ask for stuff, you know.”

Richie can only nod, blinking.

“Can I ask you for something, though?” 

Richie nods again, watching Eddie’s face.

“Will you take me to bed?”

Richie stands up so quickly that he hits his thighs against the table. “Do you want to open the edible underwear first?”

Eddie snorts, standing. “Let’s save that for another time.” He’s still holding Richie’s hand, and he lets Richie lead him to their bedroom. He only lets his hand go to start taking off his shirt, a black polo. 

“Do I ever tell you how hot you are?” Richie asks, a little faintly.

Eddie smirks, but he’s turning a little pink in his ears and neck as he takes off his pants, and is standing there in his boxer-briefs and socks. “You kind of hint at it sometimes.” He tugs at Richie’s shirt. “C’mon, get naked for me.”

With a confused mix of wanting to immediately comply and feeling weird about himself (again) given how trim and cute Eddie is, Richie hastily scrambles to get his t-shirt off, then his jeans, as Eddie observes with his hands on his hips. 

“Do I ever tell _you_ how hot _you_ are?” Eddie asks.

“I’m—” Richie gestures at his body overall: too big, too hairy.

“Rich. Shut up, yes you are.” Eddie’s eyes do look a little glazed, and there is some pink in his cheeks. Eddie’s a bad liar, so…. “When you’re out in L.A. or whatever and I’m here by myself I think about you pinning me up against the wall and fucking me or how you look when you’re over me in bed.”

Richie blinks rapidly. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” Eddie looks a little dazed, like he’s remembering it. “You’re so big. I’d finger myself in the shower or in bed thinking about it. I’d get off to it.”

“Holy fuck, why didn’t you tell me? You could have called me,” Richie says. “Holy shit, phone sex with Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I guess I thought you’d make fun of me.”

“No, Jesus.” Richie shakes his head. “That’s like the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t think I’d have enough blood in my brain to make fun of you, even if I wanted to.”

“So can we do that now?” Eddie asks, hopeful, brow raised.

“Edward Kaspbrak, are you asking me if I want to fuck you against the wall?”

Eddie nods. “And then finish in bed?”

Richie pretends to think about it. “Shit, I don’t know, my schedule’s pretty packed right now—” Eddie shoves him lightly. “But I guess I could find the time.”

“Kiss me,” Eddie tells him, and before he’s even finished saying it Richie surges forward to pull Eddie up against him, leaning down a little to capture his mouth. Eddie wraps his arms around him and kisses him back. Richie was already well on his way to getting a chub, and with Eddie half-naked up against him and kissing him he’s fully hard in moments. 

Eddie separates them just long enough for them to get out of their boxers and socks. Eddie’s dick is perfect: beautiful and hard and red and leaking at the tip, and Richie’s mouth waters. He considers dropping to his knees to get his lips around it, but Eddie’s kissing him again, and between more kisses Eddie manages to tell him, “Get the lube.”

Richie scrambles to get the lube from their nightstand drawer; Eddie takes it from him, uncaps it, and slathers it over his palm, which he wraps around Richie’s dick as he walks backward a few steps to lean against the wall. He caps the tube, drops it on the floor, and says, “Lift me up.”

Wordless, Richie does, and watches as Eddie, back against the wall and legs on either side of Richie’s hips, frowns in concentration as he pushes his slick hand back behind himself, lips parting and dark lashes fluttering when he gets his fingers inside. “God,” Richie moans. “Holy shit, Eddie,” he gasps, watching Eddie’s face as he fucks himself on his fingers. Richie’s so hard he thinks he might die.

Eddie nods. “Now. Richie, fuck me.” His fingers are out, his arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulder, and Richie can’t even spare a moment to be slow and considerate as he wastes no time getting his dick inside Eddie’s slightly stretched, slick hole. “Fuck, Richie,” Eddie breathes. “You feel so good, sweetheart. You feel amazing.” Eddie’s voice sounds almost slurred. He hitches his legs up, tight around Richie’s hips; Richie buries his face in the hot skin of Eddie’s neck. “Fuck, I love that you can hold me up like this,” Eddie whispers. 

“Eddie,” Richie gasps, all eloquence gone. He’s buried in Eddie, Eddie’s wrapped around him— Gravity makes it so that he’s deep, but Richie knows his knees won’t let him do this for too long. Still, he starts fucking into Eddie, fucking him against the wall, listening to the way Eddie’s breath shudders on every thrust. He tilts his head back at some point to see Eddie with his eyes closed, face pink, nostrils flaring and lips slightly parted. Eddie must feel him looking, because he opens his eyes and kisses him, and Richie whimpers into his mouth. 

They’re like that for some time, until—

“Bed, bed,” Eddie manages, wrapping his legs and arms more tightly around Richie as Richie starts to comprehend what Eddie’s saying and lifts him away from the wall, turning to put him on the bed, Eddie’s limbs locking around him again as he adjusts and fucks into him again, kissing him still, the kisses wet and loose. One of Eddie’s arms stays around his back as with his other hand Eddie wraps his fingers in Richie’s hair and pulls his head up, breaking the kiss. Eddie looks at him with his big, sincere brown eyes and says, “I love you so much, Rich. You’re always my favorite, I love you so fucking much. Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

He’s balls-deep in Eddie and he’s got tears welling in his eyes, fuck. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he gasps. “ _God_ , Eddie.” 

Eddie strokes his hair, scratches his scalp, kisses him again with startling tenderness. Relieved from the burden of having to say aloud right now what Eddie already knows, when Eddie murmurs between them “Fuck me hard, show me how much you love me,” maybe it’s corny but Richie just makes a strangled sound and does, or he hopes to God he does; the bed shakes, anyway.

When he’s getting faster, frantic, just about to come and Eddie knows it, Eddie pulls his hair again, parting their lips with a soft wet sound, and captures his gaze. Richie’s glasses might be a little smeared, but he holds the gaze, and— and comes with Eddie staring into his eyes. He thinks he might even cry out, and Eddie locks his legs around his hips and works a hand between them and comes, letting his eyes close halfway as his lashes flutter but not looking away, biting his lip, and whatever Richie thought was the hottest thing ever before pales in comparison to this. 

He rests his forehead on Eddie’s, murmurs when Eddie dots his face with kisses. “I love it when you come inside me,” Eddie sighs, and Richie’s dick, still inside him, twitches. Eddie— Richie knows for a fact that Eddie used to be completely freaked out at the idea of someone else’s semen in or around any bodily orifice of his, and now he’s wrapped naked around Richie, skin to skin, slick with their sweat, and looking dick-drunk as he rhapsodizes about being filled with Richie’s come. And then—God—Richie feels like he’s suddenly sliding into something like panic as he realizes his lashes are wet, and he presses his face against Eddie’s neck just under his ear. Eddie can tell, he’s sure, Eddie can feel his tears. 

“I love you so much, Eddie,” he sighs wetly as Eddie strokes his fingers through his hair, the touch soothing. “God, fuck, I just— I never thought I’d be this lucky, when I carved our initials I never even dreamed—”

“Remember what I told you when you showed me?” Eddie asks, his voice trembling a little. “We were still covered in raw sewage and quarry water and— and blood, and I told you—”

“—That if you’d known I’d carved that you’d have run away with me,” Richie finishes. “Instead,” he adds, wry, hollow, “we forgot each other. For twenty-seven _fucking_ years.”

“But we have each other _now_ ,” Eddie says, with an undertone of fierceness, taking Richie’s face in both of his hands. “Do you know how lucky we both are, Rich? There are people who live their entire lives without anything close to what we have. If I could, I’d go back in time and make sure you never thought for one second that you were too much or not enough but I hope you can believe me when I tell you now, okay?” Eddie, still cupping his jaw, kisses his forehead. “I never want you to feel that way again, and I’m sorry you ever did, okay?”

“Okay,” Richie manages, and swallows hard. Eddie’s thumb strokes over his jaw.

Unbidden, Richie suddenly remembers one time, dick-drunk himself, in college when there’d been a guy, the first guy he’d really done much of anything with, whom he’d slept with a few times, and how one morning Richie had gathered up all his courage to tell him, before they went to their early morning classes, that he loved him. 

The minute he actually said it, it sounded wrong, and when he saw the look on the guy’s face—Robert’s face—his stomach had sunk like a stone. Robert’s expression and his silence said he was going to have to be careful with Richie now, to step back, to end this, because (it went unspoken) Richie had been stupid and gotten the wrong idea, and had ruined what was basically just mediocre, closeted-guy inexperienced casual sex. He’d gotten attached to the first dick he’d sucked, like a fucking idiot. 

From that point, he’d stuck to his lines: casual, gone before morning, no cuddling, no declarations of love. The guys tended to be on the short side, dark hair and dark eyes. It just seemed like that happened to be his type until he saw Eddie again and it all came flooding back: the weight of the crush that made him want to die, the hopeless desperate feeling of one-sided teenage love that had to be kept secret. 

He and Eddie had nearly died that day, and instead he’d watched Eddie choose to muster up every last drop of his bravery and save them, and become a new version of himself in the process, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. And Eddie had taken his hand and chosen him. That was Eddie’s wooing, he now realizes—that was Eddie’s winning him. Except that Richie was already won. He’s been longing for something he already has.

“Hey,” Eddie says now, gently, looking at him searchingly like he’s trying to figure out where he’s gone. “You wanna nap?” He strokes Richie’s sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. Richie figures Eddie will wake up in an hour or so, groggy and complaining about being sticky, but it’s worth it. 

“Yeah,” Richie says. He lets Eddie take off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. Drawing out, he soothes Eddie’s little grumble at the discomfort of separating with a brief kiss. He settles halfway on Eddie, huffing out a laugh at how he squirms as if in protest while at the same time he wraps his arms around Richie like he has no intention of ever letting him go.

**Author's Note:**

> _Always looking for ways to love you  
>  Never failing to fight at your side  
> While the angels of love protect us  
> From the innermost secrets we hide_
> 
> _I'll hold you for as long as you like  
>  I'll hold you for the rest of my life_
> 
> —"Calico Skies," Paul McCartney


End file.
